Good, Alright
by cptnonigiri
Summary: Draco Malfoy enters Hermione Granger's peaceful post-war life as a nuisance — fine, as the last person she expected Harry to befriend. Only that the nuisance seems determined to ignore her existence on all levels, and Hermione's most definitely got a problem with that.


*****DISCLAIMER***** All characters & background stories herein belong to the wonderful JKR and Warner Bros. Don't own don't sue!

* * *

I.

Nobody had seen this coming.

"This" being Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, _Friends_.

Sometimes Hermione thought that they could have all been spared a whole lot of effort if Harry just held some friendly matches with the Death Eaters during the war, since apparently there was no grudge that some good community quidditch games cannot turn into brotherhood. Regardless, the rational Hermione Granger rationalized. After all, they did _not_ fight a war to keep people on two separate sides. She personally could not pick out one single likable thing about Draco Malfoy if her life depended on it, but that did not mean he truly stank of evil or that Harry cannot be friends with whoever he pleased.

She therefore felt the necessity to voice her support for Harry in this unlikely and much-frowned-upon (especially from Ron) friendship. He gave her one of the signature _boy-who-gives-the-most-genuine-hugs_ hugs and she was in the middle of a smile that was supposed to embody the magnitude of their friendship, when Harry blurted out that if everyone could make peace with Crookshanks' aggressive gnawing, _Draco_ would fit in just fine.

 _Boy Who Always Ruins the Moment_. She didn't know how Ginny put up with this dunce.

II.

She ran into Malfoy on her office floor on the next day.

 _Move past the past, let bygones be bygones, it was years ago, he was a kid, for Harry's sake…_

After what might have been an eerily long period of concentrated mantra-meditation on her part and broody glaring on his, Hermione managed to squeeze out a tentative smile, almost feeling like a benign suburban mom who was grudgingly welcoming the neighborhood thug boy her son had inconceivably befriended. Though it probably just looked like she pressed her lips into a prim line, which she realized could come across as quite hostile, so she gingerly lifted up the corners of her mouth on an afterthought. She might have just achieved the most uncomfortable looking smile in human history.

He merely tightened his jaw and strode away, taking unnecessary big steps as if he would have run at full force only to get away from her as soon as possible.

Just what Harry saw in the git, she would never know.

III.

She soon realized that Malfoy had a problem. With her.

He had sat at lunch with a couple of her friends at the ministry. He had met up with them on weekends, where he had been perfectly civil towards everyone and even shared a good laugh with Neville at a maybe-could-be-witty jibe on his behalf. Even Seamus, who had adamantly protested Malfoy's presence at first, had shown dangerous signs of leaning towards the dark side — _no,_ _Hermione, stop thinking about it like that_ — the ferret side, just the ferret side.

Yet he had made a point to stay icy cold towards her. He barely even looked at her when he had to speak to her in what must had been moments of _harrowing pain_ , and he practically _knocked_ the pepper shaker in her direction when she _politely_ asked for it during that one hogsmeade group dinner.

At first she thought it must be that they had a particularly unpleasant history. Even in his general awfulness through their school years, he had always seemed somewhat… _personal_ towards her. His insults for her had always seemed more pointed than what he had for the boys, and he had always make sure to one up the venom level when he turned his chilling stare to her. And of course there was that…physical confrontation in third year, which, she reminded herself with a smug smile she couldn't help, could probably make the top 10 proudest moments of her Hogwarts career.

She kept telling herself that it was not something worth sweating over. She, for one, was under no obligations to befriend Malfoy; it was his loss that he could not move past his childish petulance. Yet it still stung. She felt a (very well justified) irritation sizzling in her chest whenever she had to be in the presence of his vexing silence.

IV.

"I actually don't mind him," her redheaded friend chirped in her usual upbeat voice as she not-so-carefully levitated two mugs from the cupboard, "he has changed quite a bit since school, you know."

Hermione protested, "he still walks like he owns the bloody planet —"

"And he can be quite funny, once you get used to that particular brand of dark humor." Ginny cut her off as she clunked the mugs on the kitchen table. Hermione tried not to wince at the loud noise. If only Ginny had diverted some of her efforts on perfecting her daunting hexes to performing levitation charms with a teeny bit more delicacy…

"And you know, he's easy on the eyes."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Wha —," she automatically opened her mouth, only to realize a second too late that she didn't seem confident of making a convincing case of her retort.

Ginny, as ruthless as ever, bursted out laughing at the rare sight of Hermione Granger's gaping mouth failing to finish her own argument.

V.

Hermione did not think anyone could be easy on the eyes when they were trying to avoid her eyes like she was the Slytherin Basilisk.

She stood in fuming anger by her office door as Malfoy made a victorious exit after another round of _see-if-I-can-do-this-without-so-much-as-acknowledging-your-existence_ paper signing. She should take the Potters to St. Mungo to have their heads checked. Ginny might need a more extensive check-up — what was she on about? Look at those arrogant shoulders, that _oh-so-majestic_ gait, that platinum blonde hair so blinding she wondered how it had not been marked an epilepsy hazard — she glared at his obnoxiously straight back until he disappeared down the corridor.

VI.

"Me? Jealous? Come on you boys, I know I am irreplaceable —" Hermione yelled in feigned offense, as Ron let out a hearty laugh while Harry shook his head at her pathetic attempt at the theatrics.

The conversation had somehow drifted onto the topic of Malfoy again. They — the Gryffindors, Dumbledore's Army — are a group of people that had a clear sense of community, and it was no trivial matter to have an addition to the group, especially considering the controversial background and stiff pokerface of said addition. While there was definitely plenty of grudge, neither Ron or Hermione actually detested Malfoy past their schooldays animosity. Against all odds and common sense, the trio had, in fact, testified _for_ Malfoy at his Wizengamot trial, their testimony prepared by none other but Hermione Granger herself, who in present-day, had just tried to make a point that just because Malfoy did not deserve to rot in Azkaban did not mean that he was anywhere close to a worthy friend.

She had prepared the testimony because — this sounded absurd — because he reminded her of Buckbeak's case in their third year. She had worked hard to help Hagrid with the case back in their third year, and though they were able to save the hippogriff in the end, she had always harbored a secret guilt that her work had not been up to par in court despite Hagrid's less-than-optimal delivery. In a way, she reckoned that Malfoy had also lashed out under circumstances far beyond his own control — did not know better, did not realistically have the option of a _better_. It was really quite the bitter irony that he was put to trial in the conference of a post war Wizengamot bent on ringing in the new era with the sentencing of a barely-of-age wizard with a particularly press-worthy last name, and _to think that_ just years before the same jury had been buttered up to execute a helpless magical creature with gold from a Gringotts vault bearing the same name.

Unrelenting sense of justice or just not cold-blooded enough to cast aside the humanity of someone who she had suffered from but also practically grown up with, the thought of carting Malfoy off to Azkaban without presenting every last bit of the jigsaw did not sit well with Hermione. At the trial, she had presented to the jury how he had seemed reluctant in identifying them at Malfoy Manor, and Harry had even gone so far back as to mention that he had warned him and Ron — could have put it in nicer terms, admittedly — to keep her hidden when Voldemort sympathizers first gathered at the World Cup at the beginning of their fourth year. She remembered having looked at Malfoy after delivering her 10-minute-long testimony, who looked apathetic and fragilely proud in his tattered gray robes. His eyes had been there to hold her glance when she looked over, and she had felt something weighty born into her skull with the brittle composure in his steel-gray eyes.

VII.

For someone who took every opportunity to show off his aristocratic upbringing, it was truly a mystery how Malfoy never got the memo that there were more polite ways to look at people other than staring as if you want to drill holes in their skull.

Hermione could not help but smiling a little at the thought, taking a small sip of the cider she had in her hand as she extended her legs on a bleacher in the Potters' backyard, where their old school pals have yet again gathered for some casual weekend catch-up, a perpetually glaring Malfoy in tow. She decided to save the comment as a clever jibe reserved for when Malfoy finally decided to speak to her. She would never admit to this — not on her deathbed — but Malfoy was a challenging conversationist and never let up his sharp edge of wit in any comeback. Of course she had only gathered that from overhearing him talk. Things had remained below frozen between Malfoy and her, with their most lengthy exchange capped off at three snappy sentences before he gave her one of those drilling looks, turned on his heels and probably charmed his robes to billow behind for dramatic effect.

As much as she kept telling herself that she was _by no means_ eager for Malfoy's friendship, Hermione had a curiosity and curiosity killed more than cats. She did not see herself as a particularly disagreeable person, and she saw no major flaw in her social skills. She had always taken pride in a versatile emotional range of a whole set of measurement cups, _in fact, s_ he had even managed to break things off Ron with no major hiccup, moderating a gradual backing down and carrying out the talk at a most opportune moment. In most people's eyes, it probably looked like they just slipped back into a comfortable friendship. They had not even bothered to stage any kind of official announcement for their parted ways; the post-war lime light had driven Hermione into the habit of keeping things only to a circle of close friends.

She loved Ron dearly, and she had panicked when she first came to the reluctant conclusion that she stopped feeling for him in that way after they settled into their post-war lives, where they were no longer an entity automatically bound by a world-saving mission that had both of their lives on the line. While they were perfectly capable of acting in unison in front of a life-threatening crisis, the chemistry between them had quickly run dry when adrenaline was no longer pumping through their blood vessels on a daily basis. It might have taken Ron a bit longer, but she knew he noticed it as much as she did.

She had been tremendously grateful that their friendship emerged from the whole thing more or less intact, if a little wobbly in the immediate aftermath. But they are in a good place now, a really good place, Hermione thought as she flashed Ron a big smile when she saw him walking towards her, raising a beer and a PB & J sandwich he had picked up from Mr. Weasley, who picked it from some god awful American TV show.

She was just really relieved in that moment. Relieved that they had all arrived at this place in life that they used to dream about in the dim Lumos light in whatever thick neck of woods they were hiding in, a place in life where Mr. Weasley spent most of his free time examining Muggle sandwich recipes instead of worrying sick about his family, a place where she had her friends around her, safe, and laughing. On that happy thought she gave Ron a spontaneous hug when he got to her, slightly drunk in the sheer perfection of the moment.

The Perfect Moment was slightly marred by this prickly sensation on the back of her head, which felt suspiciously similar to The Drilling Look by Draco Malfoy™. But she would deal with that problem another day.

VIII.

 _HA,_ Hermione let out a sarcastic cheer in her head, _this must be killing him_.

It was one of those after-Sunday-Quidditch dinners, and Malfoy, who spent an absurdly long time in the changing room (just _who_ , in the name of Merlin, felt the need to wear a three-piece formal robe on a _Sunday_?!), had to take the only available seat left. _Right next to her._

As much as she enjoyed the thought of a suffering Malfoy, she had to admit that the seating arrangement was not working great for her, either. It was a quaint country-style restaurant that came with lovely rustic wood tables, which despite their loveliness, were not designed to seat such a large party. Everyone was practically rubbing shoulders and knocking elbows as they maneuvered their forks and knives in whatever space they had.

Since the moment he sat down, Malfoy had been a rigid wall of uncomfortable stiffness and insufferable body heat, possibly aggravated by the major inconvenience of having to sit next to her. They were occupying the middle "seats" on what was probably meant to be a cute log-bench, if only the cuteness was not easily overwhelmed by the excruciating pain of social awkwardness. Their shoulders are almost pressed together, and she hated the rigidness of his biceps that made her feel like she had the underhand in this shoulder rubbing competition. The scent of his pretentious cologne or shower gel or whatever ferret-fur-caring product was overpowering in the late summer heat, and she felt overheated and nauseated and squished and _God his shoulders are practically cutting hers_ and . .

Holding back an exasperated sigh, she reached out to grab her glass of ice water on the table, except that Malfoy _had_ to have the same thought at the exact same time. She had tilted her shoulders ever so slightly in his direction in her effort to raise her right arm, and he had decided to shift his upper body into a more sideways angle so he could move those _abnormally broad shoulders_. As a result, they had wound up in this position where her right shoulder blade ended up right against his chest, a position she realized with rapidly rising horror that looked like she was l _eaning into him_.

The only silver lining in the situation was that he seemed as freaked out as she was. They froze, again, in aggravating unison, and remained _nestled_ for a good few seconds. If she had been complaining about his offending body heat before she had _no idea_ how much worse this was. The man was practically a furnace and she could feel her own body temperature shooting up as his heart _thumped, thumped, thumped_ against her shoulder blade, sending small vibrations through her chest that had her insides seized up in a fit of what must be Ferret Heartbeat Allergy reactions.

As much as she was certain that this was the most amount of agony either of them had gone through since the end of the war, neither seemed willing to budge — which would be to yield — to admit _defeat_. Hermione sat up a little straighter at the thought, inadvertently edging more of her back to press even more tightly against the surprisingly not-so-uncomfortable fabric of his robe; his already threatening heartbeat picked up in response, almost as if he was planning on repelling her body away with his murderous thunder heartbeats alone. Thankfully the rest of the table remained unaware of their tug-of-war, as they passed plates around and clinked wine glasses, accompanied by quidditch chatters that Hermione did not care for in the very least but whose all-consuming pull on her friends she was thankful for just this one time. That is, until the _urgently-in-need-of-Mungo's-head-check_ Ginerva Potter sent an amused look their way, her eyes twinkling as her lips twisted into what was probably supposed to be a _knowing_ smile.

Ginny shifted her eyes away with a dainty wiggle of her eyebrows, before Hermione could send her _NO NOT WHAT YOU THINK_ glare halfway across the table. In a moment of utter disbelief at her friend's way-too-imaginative eyebrows, Hermione forgot about her current _shoulder-against-chest-overheating-heartbeats_ stalemate and shoved her hand to her water glass, elbowing Malfoy in the stomach — unintentionally, hand to Merlin — in the process, which resulted in an almost silent grunt from him and the hot air he humphed in displeasure caught directly on her nape as she was swallowing a particularly large gulp of water, which, due to the unexpected vicious airflow attack on her neck, decided to go down a different pipe and sent her into a coughing fit.

See, this was why the barmy Potters were wrong in welcoming Malfoy with open arms ( _and_ wiggling eyebrows). He did not even have the decency to move back his a-stupid-wall-of-chest even when she was apparently going through life-threatening coughs, and she distinctively felt vibrations from his chest that was not just the Murderous Thunder Heartbeat but what started to feel like stifled _laughter_ — the _NERVE_ — she turned around to give him the best glare her current situation allowed, and locked onto his usually glacier cold eyes that were… _twinkling…with…amusement?_ She lost half a second of breath to her surprise finding, which proved to be a grave mistake that sent her right back into the coughing fit she was just recovering from.

 _And he actually laughed out loud, The Git._ She stared at the curvature to his eyes and the softening of the lines around his face and thought that _Malfoy looks really different when he laughs_ , when he tossed two napkins at her lap and she realized with a burning blush that she had spilled a good amount of water all over herself thanks to his alien broad shoulders, horrible breath aim, and Ginny's deranged eyebrows.

IX.

"Okay," Hermione said as she dropped a handful of books on Auror Potter's desk, maybe a little louder than necessary, "admit it. You must have seen it, too. Your new best mate has a problem with me".

She had to get this off her chest. She had thought that she cracked a tip of the iceberg when that — _accident_ — took place at the Sunday dinner two weeks ago, but as soon as they left that table — as soon as his insufferable body heat were no long _burning marks_ onto her skin, he had gone straight back into the cutting silence, if not even more withdrawn than how he had been. She had grown sick of having to watch Malfoy getting all chummy with some of her best friends, coming to their dinners, while giving _her_ the coldest of the cold shoulders.

"Well, you know, he could be…a little…um, abrasive," Harry said placatingly, and quickly added under her glare, "and you don't have it the worst. Look at how he acts around Ron."

Praise Merlin's hairy left buttock that Harry Potter was destined to destroy Voldemort and _not_ to play anyone's defense attorney.

"And _that_ makes it all okay?" Hermione's voice bore a dangerous resemblance to that of a McGonagall catching a dozen first years wandering up the North Tower after curfew, "He is even worse with your other best friend and I should be thanking my stars that I am only second on the _Disgusting Creatures_ list of his royal highness Draco bloody Malfoy?!"

And how _did_ he act around Ron? She must have been too wrapped up in her own frustration that she had never noticed. Oh for the love of Merlin it better not be that snooty _Weasleys-grew-up-in-a-shack_ bull-crap again — wait, that could not be it, Ginny and George both seemed to get on with him just fine — " _What is it?_ " She felt like she was about to combust with all this guesswork, "Harry, just tell me, what _is_ it?"

Harry looked like he would rather be giving an exclusive interview on his love life to Rita Skeeter now.

"Look, it's not what you think — "

" — 's he still hung up on that stupid blood stuff? Is it because my parents — "

"NO! Hermione, no! I swear, it's not —"

"THEN WHAT IS IT HARRY JAMES POTTER?"

" — not my place — to tell!"

Harry finished on a firm note, and Hermione had known him long enough to know from that look on his face that she was not going to get anything else from him. " _Fine,"_ she hissed through clenched teeth, "I will get it out of him myself."

X.

Hermione had prepared several versions of _The Speech,_ and she may have practiced segments of them in front of her mirror when she could find absolutely, and she meant _absolutely_ , nothing else to fill the time. Hermione liked preparing. A prepared Hermione is a smug — _happy_ Hermione, and she made a note to hold her nose high as she marched towards Malfoy's office in decidedly _not_ bouncy steps.

She had rehearsed a polite yet _I mean business_ knock on her dining table the previous night, but seeing that Malfoy's head had already shot up as her right foot barely entered his vision from the door frame, she thought that she had better save that knock for another occasion, though she had rather hoped that she would only be so rudely shunned only this once in her life.

It must be all that beautiful mid-morning light from that huge glass window behind him, but in that one dangerous, _deranged_ moment she was starting to think that maybe Ginny did have a point. His Broad Alien Shoulders looked a lot less offensive when they are not shaking in laughter at her expense, and the way his gray eyes caught the flecks of pale gold from his hair was quite…

 _Business_ , _Hermione,_ she reminded herself, and just as she was about to clear her throat he stepped out from behind his desk, drawing up to his annoyingly imposing full height, which Hermione interpreted as a sign of challenge and responded by straightening out her back as much as possible, and trying to assume a dominating air despite coming up more than a head shorter.

His eyes lingered on her face for an uncomfortably long moment, and then he casually turned his look away to the bookshelves on his right, seemingly unaware of the daggers shooting out from Hermione's eyes on the other end of his office.

 _This is it._

 _THIS. This maddening rudeness. Like he could not even bear to look at her._

Mental speech drafts shoved aside by a swift rush of rage, Hermione charged towards Malfoy, possibly causing a swooshing noise with the rapid movement of her robes. Her hands had almost raised high enough to grab him by his prissy ironed collars, when the intensified _swoosh_ turned into a loud CRACK which then turned into the sound of glass shattering. Before she knew what was happening she was pinned down on _Draco Malfoy's office floor,_ her head spinning and her upper arms aching from his vexing grip, and she thought she could feel her ribs giving out under his crushing weight. She could feel all his muscles tensing up and his hands making the incredulous trace up and down her sides, going through a quick patting motions that might have been…checking if she was okay? His eyes finally travelled up to hers and she felt the heat creeping up her cheeks, and in a space of a second she saw the panic in his eyes and she realized _what this could be._

 _Oh. Oh Merlin._

She felt a rush of adrenaline shooting through her veins as she fumbled for her wand in her robe pocket, and she was attempting to sit up even before she got a firm grip on the thing. Only that he shoved her to lean against one of the bookshelves with brute force and turned around so that she was jammed between the bookshelf and his back. Malfoy then sprang up to a crouched position as he surveyed the room with his wand raised in front of him — them both.

He froze when he spotted a certain something on the floor, and she could tell that the lines of his shoulders relaxed a little. Then there were pattering footsteps from the corridor rushing towards his office from all directions, and Malfoy finally decided to budge before she was contending on Stupefying him from behind — a plan the late Moody would _not_ approve — so she could finally shove him aside to see what was going on. When she finally pushed past his back and took a good look at the room, she saw at the center of a circle of glowing wand tips from ministry security staff and a few aurors, a memo paper plane lying on the floor, only slightly scraped up in its forced entry through a panel of glass.

XI.

Hermione was pretty sure that her name was going down textbooks, and this time on top of war heroine — a title she was much, _much_ more okay with in light of recent events — she was going to be known as main participant of an anecdote that defined PTSD for future generations of the wizarding world.

The ministry spent hours interrogating Malfoy and her, and in separate rooms at that. Hermione was not particularly a fan of recounting how Malfoy _tackled_ her and then _physically overwhelmed_ her, _rendered her incapable of self-defense_ , but she was not going to let the ferret get away with the _attack_ while she was still feeling a buzz at the back of her head. As if admitting _temporary_ physical inferiority to the boy who _whimpered_ under her mean right hook was not enough to mark her rotten day, the ministry deposition officer had the _nerve_ to ask her to _elaborate on the exact actions Mr. Malfoy took_. She then had to squeeze out through clenched teeth how he held her in place by grabbing her shoulders — the ferret was freakishly strong and his fingers sent this weird tingle down her sides and she bet there were bruises forming now — and how he attempted to physically crush her by throwing his full weight on her — she could vividly recall how uncomfortable it was trapped between the floor and his equally hard chest, and he was so _heavy_ — maybe he was secretly obese — she could literally feel every bit of air being squeezed out of her and she was experiencing one of those Ferret Heartbeat Allergy fits that tend to happen whenever she was in his proximity — her breath pattern got all messed up and there just never seemed to be enough _oxygen_ — oh and the whole time he was giving her the madman look that was potentially meant as a means of intimidation —

Her voice might have trailed off when she was about to get the to part where his fingers skimmed down her sides, only because she was still confused about that was about and did not _yet_ want to accuse him of assault of a whole different nature, just when Finch-Flecthly from Cursed Magical Objects rushed in and delivered in his Etonian accent that they had completed all known tests and there was _absolutely_ nothing beyond a ministry memo paper plane gone _a little_ volatile with an outdated navigation charm. Hermione's mouth was still gaping in mid sentence as the deposition lady calmly collected her file holders and quills, while expressing her relief in a tone loaded with a little much sympathy that _seeing that is the case_ , she would leave matters there as _Ms. Granger seemed to have gotten a bit flustered and judging from her coloring, might have launched into a fever from the shock of the event._

" — was _not_ flustered, no thank you Ms. please-more-details, that room was abnormally warm for being in the dungeons —", Hermione held up a finger in Ginny's face as she was going through another last-ditch effort to salvage her reputation. Gryffindor pride or whatnot, she was not going to live the rest of her life having people think tha —

"Hmm, " Ginny hummed, in a tone a little too pleasant in contrast to Hermione's exasperated recount of her day at the office, "sounds like he was trying to protect you."

And that, achieved the unprecedented feat of shutting up Hermione Granger mid-argument. Hermione stared at the rising steam from her coffee, which reminded her of that one lingering look Malfoy gave her before the volatile memo came crashed into the room. His eyes looked like shimmering silver steam in the morning light.

 _That could — could be a possibility_ , she admitted. Her mind flashed back to the sensation of his fingers digging into her shoulders as he tried to press her closer to his chest, and she guessed it would make sense that he tried to shield her in between the bookshelf and _himself_ — oh — that made sense — that made sense, _indeed_.

 _Protecting her…_

"From an old paper plane?" Her voice was weirdly strained and came out quieter than she intended.

"That could have been anything, you know."

XII.

Hermione never pegged herself down for someone who had to work up the courage for a _thank you_. Her head had been in a whirlwind for days after the paper plane incident, writing and re-writing a thank you speech intended for _Draco Malfoy —_ one thing her brain, for all its brilliance, never saw coming. Only that all this overworking must have wrecked her brain somehow, as now she was having difficulty not conjuring up the sensation of the warmth of his chest pressing onto her…breast, and how his ragged breath fell on her forehead, or how his stupid cologne that smelled like cedar and — _NO_ , Hermione, THANK YOU SPEECH, FOCUS —

She had to pull herself to an abrupt halt as a pair of shoes — very nice dress shoes — entered her downcast vision, a stupid pattern that have come to repeat itself as she wandered about the ministry with her head about to explode with all this Malfoy Mania. She looked up and was about to issue an apology when she noticed that the dress shoes, as fate would have it with its twisted sense of humor, belonged to none other but the very Draco Malfoy she was not yet ready to face.

 _Oh Merlin_ , she must look stupid now, with her mouth half-forming a "sor" and eyes wide like a deer in headlights

Malfoy merely glared at her for, again, an uncomfortably long moment, before turning on his heels and striding away in the opposite direction. And with that, he had achieved yet again what he did best — setting her _aflame_ with anger in a snap.

 _He thought he could just ignore now her like that? LIKE WHAT? Like he would never deign to issue a "hello" to her? Like she was not good enough to merit his regal presence —_

Oh was she going to prove him _wrong._

Hermione stormed after Malfoy, the two of them walking at maximum speed without breaking into a run in the middle of an office flour. _Fine_ , she might have sprinted a little to catch up with his ridiculous long-legged stride, but she could care less about the curious looks when she finally snatched him by the elbow and yanked him into the nearest coffee room.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at her, his eyes doing that Weird Shimmering Thing again in the steam of the coffee room.

Hermione felt some of her anger ebbing away amongst the delicious smell of the room, decidedly _not_ under the effect of the Weird Shimmering Thing. _Well, maybe it is not such a bad thing, it is always good to be calm_ — and just as her internal monologue arrived at the word "calm", she snapped to the realization that there was barely a foot between Malfoy and her heaving chests — from the speed walking — and there was no space for her to back off or she would knock into that hovering filter behind her slowly dripping coffee into several precarious-looking self-levitating coffee mugs. _In any case, I am not backing off_ , she took in a big gulp of air and tried to clear her head of all this coffee steam, the Weird Shimmering Thing, and the general Malfoyness that had been known to cast dizzy spells on her person.

"Okay," _okay, this is promising, keep going, Hermione — "_ okay. Well, first of all — before — a couple days ago — well I would like to — a quick — thankyouforwhatyoudidtheotherday — in your office, I mean — the paper plane — thank you."

If the N.E.W.T.s had a Thank You Speech section Hermione would have raised the need for conceiving a grade lower than Troll.

Now Malfoy was just evaluating her in that uncomfortable, annoying, _maddening_ silence, his brows furrowed as if deep in thought trying to string together the garbled words she just sputtered out.

"And — ", given how brilliantly her last speech went, Hermione knew it was not a smart idea to get started on another one right this linguistically challenged moment, but her eager-to-ruin-her-reputation mouth moved on its own accord, "And there is something else — look, you are — friends, with Harry", _speech, version 3, transition phrase 1, "_ you play quidditch with the boys, Harry, Seamus, Ron, an — "

"Is that what this about?"

 _What?_ Hermione stared at Malfoy in confusion, she had barely gotten to her point —

"Did your on-and-off boyfriend go running to you complain —"

 _Just how on earth —_

"OFF! WE ARE JUST OFF!"

Hermione cut him off in what came dangerously close to a shriek, her anger raging up again — _how did this have anything to do anything?_ She glared at Malfoy, and it must be all the coffee steam fogging up her vision, but she could almost swear that there were some warm tinges to the gray of his eyes that were an absolute thunderstorm just moments before, and he looked almost…pleased? What does _he_ have to gloat about? _No, Hermione, STAY ON TRACK,_ she quickly reminded herself of the reason she dragged Malfoy into this coffee room in the first place, _do NOT fall for the ferret's cheap tactic to distract you from the real issue here,_ she thought to herself, took in another deep breath and carried on, "I know we had never been on good terms, but now that you are friends with — _Are you listening_?"

Malfoy still had a weird glazed look about his eyes, and his general facial expression looked like someone casted a botched Cheering Charm on him — one that had his eyes all mercurial and the corners of his mouth raising _barely_ a tenth of an inch, yet had the rest of his face straightened out under that infallible plaster mask called Malfoy genes.

He still looked too much under the effect of the botched Cheering Charm to say anything, and Hermione had started to regret snapping at him earlier, _just a little_. Maybe Ginny was right, maybe if she just talked to him like he were a regular person — as if _that_ was easy — he would start acting normal in front of her, too. _Casual. Easy._ The redhead had stressed those words in the final chapter of her pep talk.

 _Right._ "So, hear me out here, what about, um, " _complete sentence please, Hermione,_ she silently chided herself in exasperation, "I don't see any, um, reason that we could not act civil around each other —" _Good, keep it up,_ "if there's anything you need to get off your chest", _go on,_ "I would have no problem hearing it , so what do you say —" _BE CASUAL,_ "um, Draco?"

 _Oh._

 _What was she thinking? What good could ever come out of listening to Ginny?_

Malfoy narrowed his eye at the mention of his first name, shooting her an angry…predatory? look. _Okay, so maybe the first name was stepping over a line, there's always time to right a wrong —_

 _"_ Anyways, I just want us to clear this up once and for all, Malfoy —"

 _Oh, oh no. Now that look had turned downright murderous. The last name was not a good move, either. Maybe just steer clear of names altogether —_

 _"_ Look, I am just trying to —"

"Words have it that I _assaulted_ you on my office floor."

The sentence came out at a deliberate pace, his voice barely above a whisper. An _amused_ whisper. He was definitely smirking now, the botched Cheering Charm finally lifted, and it was somewhat different from his usual mocking smirk, it was more of a…boyish smirk. A grin.

Hermione was about to comment on the _assault_ when he suddenly reached out an arm and tugged her _even_ closer, just in time so that she narrowly missed a brimming coffee mug swooshing towards its designated owner. He was still looking down at her with that uncanny grin. _A grinning Malfoy, she's got a grinning Draco Malfoy in a delicious-smelling coffee room_ , and the thought somehow brought a smile to her face, too. The top of her head was almost grazing his chin now, and she could feel the angry tension between them mutating into something even more combustible, and all this coffee fragrance must have gotten her hungry because her stomach had started doing all these tumbling-trapezing-swing-dancing things. Another flying coffee mug almost had her shoving herself into Malfoy's chest and _that_ properly snapped her out of the moment, and she pushed past Malfoy, muttered something about _sudden hunger, need to get to the cafeteria, excuse me, see you later,_ while launching into a stride as breathless as the one that first landed her in this situation of bungled speeches, seized up stomach, and what she'd never believe if not for having seen it with her own eyes — a grinning Draco Malfoy.

XIII.

Nothing bothered Hermione like a mystery, but there were only so many books she could find on ferret psychology, and from everything she could get her hands on the subject, there had been no reported case of the hypnotizing effect of coffee steam. For once, Hermione solved a problem but did not exactly know how she did it.

Well, it was not _solved_ per se. Or rather, one haphazardly solved problem brought many more. See — She and Malfoy, or occasionally "Draco", she had still been flip-flopping between the two names, never sure which one offended his delicate sensibilities more, they are more or less…casual acquaintances now. She hadn't been sure when he first responded to her lackluster _hey_ with a curt _good afternoon —_ she was still half sure that he used Legilimens on that one instead of actually heard her barely audible mumbling, and it had taken a few similar exchanges for her to rest assured in the fact that _this_ — Malfoy and her, _speaking_ — was going to stay. She had done it. She had _uncorked_ Malfoy (Ginny had flashed a lascivious smile at that one). For a 20 something that had hunted down and destroyed Horcruxes and essentially kept the _lived_ in Boy-Who-Lived for 7 years, she felt disproportionally smug about this latest triumph.

Except Malfoy and her could still use a lot of practice on the _casual_ part of casual acquaintances, as the rest of the crew kept reminding them in one roundabout way or the other. It was not so much the speaking to Malfoy part that bothered Hermione now, it was more the _speaking to Malfoy without getting riled up within 3 sentences_ thing that drove her up countless bloody walls. He just had a way of twisting, miscontruing, smirking, clicking his tongue, and raising eyebrows at her words and an even more infuriating way of delivering the his _oh-so-clever_ comebacks in this calculated, calm, mockingly amused, slightly raspy baritone — _that's beside the point —_ that always managed to tick her off in the worst way possible.

These days she could _physically_ feel her body launch into battle mode at the faintest whiff of his cologne, raking through all the witty insults she had been tallying up for days just for this moment of showdown, the cogs in her brain churning at full force because she had come to see Malfoy as a rival who can put up an annoyingly strong counter argument in any conversation, ranging from a detection charm that sent away charging coffee mugs to inventive comments on Harry's new haircut to that obscure feline-appeasing potion she thought she had perfected — and _even though_ she had conceded that the counterclockwise twirls he _rudely_ suggested did prolong the effect of the potion by a good 2 hours, Hermione Granger was not one to back down from a challenge. The new addition of Draco Malfoy to her life had for better…or worse, brought a dangerous sense of excitement that kept her on her tiptoes.

XIV.

" — only hate it because it violates the Granger-does-everything-well rule that is the pivot point of your universe — "

" — bunch of adrenaline junkies unable to find fulfillment in life when it does not involve a potential concussion and lifelong paralysis and the rules don't even make sen—"

"Oh look at the epitome of the Gryffindor adrenaline addiction tearing down their own poster —"

"Don't even get me started on the halloween costumes you call uniforms —"

"— maybe you just pretend to hate the game because you cannot stand —"

" — _tight_ — "

" — the perverted thoughts a Quidditch uniform puts in that pristine little brain of yours —"

" _inappropriate —"_

 _" —_ been ogling, huh?"

 _Gasp._

 _Smirk._

 _Just what goes through that twisted brain of his, she'd never know._ Hermione glared at a sweaty, gross, and distractedly chest-heaving post-Quidditch Malfoy in front of her. They were currently arguing in the Potters' backyard, which was really more a makeshift weedy Quidditch pitch than a backyard. Malfoy's usually flawlessly groomed hair was wind-tousled, and a few sweat-drenched strands had swung down and dangled haphazardly in front of his eyes. _Stop following their swing or you'd go cross-eyed_ , she snapped at herself, only that it did not help to have her eyes fall on his shoulders, strapped tight in that _ridiculous_ uniform that was now plastered onto his bicep — not quite bulging, but definitely very sculpted and shapely — _what has gotten into you, Hermione — definitely NOT ogling - NEVER - just where did he get all this absurd confidence — house elves could really use some Malfoy influence —_

"Your face is on fire, Granger."

XV.

She did have an inconvenient habit of blushing.

She blushed at the least blush-worthy things, such as an unintentional brush of knuckles when they passed each other in one of the Burrow's impossibly narrow hallways, a glimpse in her direction that caught her stare before she even noticed it, a quick comeback that could either be a veiled compliment or a tease in disguise, and she blushed at the stirring recognition that maybe, just maybe, she had been blushing for a reason after all.

XVI.

Hermione had gotten a wee bit tipsy — maybe a slight understatement — at the Potter's _WEAREHAVINGABABYEVERYONECOME_ party. Ginny's invitation certainly had inherited some of the flair of Mrs. Weasley's infamous Howler. _Harry and Ginny Potter_ , her two best friends, _are HAVING A BABY, s_ he thought to herself as a goofy grin split her face, a flute of champagne in her hand, her hair in one of its rare good moods in the agreeable early October breeze. It was truly a _perfect_ moment, until —

"That horrendous beast you call a pet just tried to _mangle_ me, Granger."

She spun around at the now familiar drawl, maybe in a bit too much of a haste that she briefly lost her balance. Malfoy grabbed her by the elbow before she squandered the rest of that brut imperial champagne he had gifted Potter for the occasion, his own sense of balance briefly compromised in the moment where her dainty fingers clutched onto his upper arm to stop her sideways tilt.

She had looked a bit dazed, she had — the brown and amber of her eyes swirling behind a light golden sheen, her lips parted ever so slightly as if on the precipice of a whisper. One of his favorite looks on her, in fact. He liked her mad with anger and excitement, too, with her hair springing to a life of its own and her eyes cackling with sparks he had always taken pleasure in setting on fire. But now that he had more or less mastered a surefire way to tease that look out of her self-assurance, he had come to treasure more this rarer look that only surfaced when she had just finished a particularly good slice of cinnamon apple pie or, in this case, several flutes of top-notch champagne.

He thought she would _leap_ to her cat's defense, but apparently a drunk Granger is a more peaceful Granger. She merely narrowed her eyes and looked around them, her eyes mirroring the charmed twinkling anthers of the low-hanging marigold marquee above them.

"I don't even _see_ him here." She muttered, her brows starting to furrow together. She would not, not even in her current jolly drunken state, give Malfoy the satisfaction of telling him that she had always thought Crooks rather _fond_ of him; and given the raging number of garden gnomes in the Weasleys' backyard, she could not see how Crooks would have the time for anything else.

He had wanted to say that the cat may well have been taking refuge in her hair, but held back the tease because he did not want to chase away the Favorite Look just yet. After all, she had rarely seemed so… _relaxed_ in his presence, even though one might argue that the relaxation was more of an alcohol induced stupor. Besides, he had liked how her hair looked that night. She had it up in an elegant braided bun, not quite like the one she had at the Yule Ball in their fourth year, which he had just realized with a bitter smile he probably only memorized because of all that effort raking through his brain but failing to come up with one single insult; this one was less sleek, with some locks hanging loose, framing her heart-shaped face perfectly.

"Um-hum." In the end, he merely hummed, as if in agreement with her earlier observation that Crookshanks was nowhere in sight.

Hermione's stomach did a drunken, sloppy somersault at the sound of his low humming. She liked his voice, actually; she had rarely heard it like this, though — without a calculated drawl, a mocking undertone, or an inflection at the end aimed to get on her nerves. The humming had reminded her of a slow running river under a canopy of quiet, bright summer stars.

She was feeling a little chilly in the early autumn breeze, and in her slightly woozy state of mind, pulled herself a little closer to his body heat with the grip she still had on his arm. He had looked at her with a softer version of The Drilling Look, and she felt a smile bubbling up as he undid his scarf and started wrapping it around her neck and shoulder. Leave it to Draco to always have stuff made with nice fabric — she almost let out a purr at the soft touch of the wooly material — and might have _actually purred_ when his fingertip grazed the back of her left ear lobe as he tucked in one end of the scarf there.

He was looking down at her, a few strands of hair hanging loose in front his eyes. She realized that if she rocked on her feet a little bit they would come in and out of focus, and when they were slightly blurry they looked like golden filaments and casted flecks of pale gold in his gleaming silver eyes.

 _How can a grown man be made of the coloring of fairy dust?_

Though decidedly _not_ a giggler while sober, she might have giggled out loud at that thought, and he had looked quite amused. Then she thought of his spiteful claim against Crookshanks, and before she ran the theory through in her head — Merlin help her it would not have done her much good anyway — her ever-so-treacherous mouth launched into auto-pilot.

"You know, Draco —"

 _Oh good, this one of those "Draco" days,_ he thought with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. _Merlin knows she can make a bloke hate a last name drenched in gold._

" — sometimes, I think, you two are quite alike," she explained with a very serious look on her face, "you are both — well, not the most — approachable of people — um, creatures, I mean."

 _Excuse him?_

"You keep to yourselves. You, um, _mangle_ people, physically or verbally. Not that I don't enjoy a good banter —"

Draco was starting to think that he had let that champagne sit in the cellar for a little too long.

"— but, _deep down_ , well, probably, _deeper_ down in your case — you are both, in your _own_ ways, good —"

 _Is this…what he thinks it is about?_

 _" — 's a_ good cat."

…

"And you — you are — a little — _good_ , too."

Draco had first let out an incredulous chuckle, shaking his head at her as the chuckle developed into a full-on laugh. She looked up at him in confusion, utterly unaware of the picture she made with her chocolate eyes glimmering under the charmed marigold and her delicate little face framed in _his_ scarf. He tucked the scarf a little tighter behind her neck, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles on the soft skin there. He had wanted to pull away at that, but in the spirit of a true Slytherin, could not resist the temptation to steal a quick kiss on her still slightly parted, inviting lips.

"You are unbelievable, Granger," he returned the somewhat questionable compliment, with a smile that had her feel a kind of dizziness that champagne alone could not account for.

XVI.

Hermione woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, in what must be the Burrow's guest room that used to be Percy's old room. She rolled over with a groan and her face landed on something incredibly soft. She let out a contented sigh, trying to concentrate on the velvety fiber of the fabric caressing her cheek instead of the monster raging in her head, until the persisting cologne scent on the fabric slowly permeated the thick champagne-colored fog around her brain, and she sluggishly lifted open her eyelids at the realization that her face was currently buried in Draco Malfoy's scarf.

She let out another groan, somewhat more heartfelt this time, and lifted an arm in attempt to massage her scalp but ended up inadvertently smacking herself in the face. The events… _bizarre conversations_ of last night were slowly coming back to mind, and she moaned in humiliation at the recollection that she had compared Draco to her cat, in an apparent attempt to thank him for the nice gesture of giving her his scarf. They had stayed together for most of the remainder of the night. She being the jolly drunk that she always had been, babbled on about cinnamon apple pies…that cute Muggle bookstore around the corner from the Ministry telephone booth…house elves…tooth fairy…her dentist parents…and he had listened agreeably for the most part, with one or two occasional teasing remarks that had her protesting adamantly and…well…probably _blushing_ , too.

 _Oh,_ she frowned at her memory at this one, _and at some point…there might have also been some sort of…pecking…kissing…business._

She stared at the ceiling hard as if it were a pensive. Her first reaction was anger, at herself, that she could be dead sure of her mentioning of cinnamon apple pies (the Weasley recipe was to _die for_ , in all fairness) but that her memory chose to momentarily collapse at the _kiss_. She then felt a surge of anger towards _him —_ how could he kiss her when she was not even to remember it? _How callous, inconsiderate, irrespecutful — wait, hold on_ , she tried to restrain herself before she had the west wing of Malfoy Manor blown to pieces, _we are not even sure if that actually happened_. And the most infuriating thing is, she slowly sat up and buried her face in her hands, she was not even sure what she would have done if she had been entirely herself.

 _Would she have…pushed him away? Or would she…kiss him bac —_

She fell back onto the not-so-fluffy pillow before her brain even completed that sentence, letting out a frustrated grumble while clutching onto the scarf and tossing it to the other end of the bed. The hangover eventually coaxed her into an agitated nap filled with episodic dreams, conjuring up thousands of parallel universes in which Draco had or had not kissed her, tenderly, fiercely, tugged at her lower lip, sucked the tip of her tongue, moaned her name into her mouth…

 _Oh Merlin._

XVII.

Hermione glared at the redhead sitting across the table from her.

She had finally dragged herself downstairs at some time that day, in her wrinkled dress from last night and a damning scarf spilling from her tiny clutch shoulder bag, her stubborn hair defying gravity in a way that would have her childhood idol Issac Newton turning in his grave. Ginny must have found her wherever she was at the end of the night and tossed her into bed on the account of her being too inebriated to Apparate. Ever since she had set foot in the kitchen, Ginny had been beaming at her with one eyebrow permanently above the other, glowing in what others may see as maternal excitement for her coming child and Hermione alone recognized as the cunning I-know-you-got-something-to-tell-me smile.

XVIII.

 _Okay,_ Hermione took in a deep breath, _Okay. Let's sit down and figure this out_.

Whenever she had a problem at hand, Hermione Granger _researched_. And then she _figured stuff out._ Considering her long winning track record, she did not see how this time would be any different, only that the research subject was herself.

She had fled under Ginny's silent-eyebrow-interrogation the other day, and had prepared somewhat tolerable lunches to consume in her own office so she did not have to risk running into Draco at the ministry cafeteria. The cowardice had got to stop, or Godric Gryffindor himself would have to re-enter the realm of the living to hunt her down.

She had a long roll of parchment laid in front of her, neatly divided into three columns, each lacking a caption to declare its own purpose.

Hermione stared at the parchment with an intensity that should have had it shriveled up and burned itself into wisps of smoke, her mind a unobliging mess littered with words such as _kiss, scarf, Quidditch uniform…_

Maybe things have gotten so… _impossible_ because she procrastinated. She never should have. The first time she felt a lurch in her stomach at the sight of Draco she blamed it on her day-old sandwich, the second time too much pie, and the third time she just plain ignored it…If only she had the foresight to alarm herself before things amounted to the may-or-may-not-have-been-kiss fiasco.

She had reluctantly come to the conclusion that she _would_ have kissed him back should her be in full control of her motor skills, given that the kiss _actually happened_ in the first place. _But what does that even mean?_ It had only been, what, a few weeks since Draco and her were on speaking terms? And last time she thought about _them_ , weren't they firmly in the category of the _casual acquaintance_ category, _casual_ somewhat questionable?

She had certainly stopped thinking of him as an _enemy_ , though he was still a rival, in many…good ways. She had never quite seen him as a token of evil, or she would never had said all those things she said at his trial. Since their _causal acquaintanceship,_ She had gathered small facts about him and analyzed him like she invariably did with anyone and anything else, and she had started to _feel_ the words she spoke at court that day instead of just _knowing_ them.

He had been trying to step away from his family's reputation, and she knew the post-war society had been having him working twice as hard for every half step they allowed; he had gotten on good terms with the Greengrass', and words had been going around that they were trying to orchestrate an alternative social scene among the old pureblood families; he had been a good friend to Harry, and Ginny apparently found his snarkiness helpful in her own moments of exasperation; and he had attempted to save her once, at his own cost, albeit the opponent turned out not as formidable as they had thought. _That_ made him…a little good, at least.

 _Does that mean she likes him?_

Well, sure, she liked _arguing_ with him, liked the heat between them that turned even the pettiest thing into an epic battle that had her heart racing and mind churning; she liked watching colors creeping onto his pale cheeks, liked the angry sparks in his otherwise stone cold eyes when she cut off his sentences; she liked having someone around that could get as hotheaded about a newly invented spell as she did; she liked his acerbic yet undeniably quick wit that kept her on edge; she liked that stupid confidence —

Her quill came to an abrupt stop as she stared at the thoughts she just jotted down on the sheet of parchment, now practically a half-formed Love Letter to Draco Malfoy. _No, not this —_ she balled it up in her hand, and on an afterthought — _can't, won't_ — started tearing it into shreds — _are you a witch or NOT? —_ Hermione pulled out her wand and gave a formidable flick at the parchment, which immediately pulverized into a mist of fine dust that was now slowly settling over her office desk.

 _Oh, brill, this is all terribly inconvenient._

XIX.

Hermione had been fidgeting with her silverware for the last two minutes, determined not to look in her 10 o'clock direction, where a certain Draco Malfoy currently sat.

She had not made much progress in the _figuring things out_ department since she left a permanent burn mark on her office desk, and she would be lying if she said the lack of progress did not bother her. It did not help that she did not have much to work from, given that her memory of the night was little more than a hazy blob. Maybe it was just a… _caught in the moment…_ thing. Or maybe it was just an _imaginary_ thing.

Before she came to the Potters' Saturday group dinner, she had decided that the best course of action was to stick to Plan _Casual_. She had put on a decidedly casual old plum-colored sweatshirt from her school days and a pair of plain muggle jeans, and as an afterthought, grabbed Draco's scarf and shoved it into her bag. He arrived 2 minutes after her, and she could not tell if anything was different from the way he said "Hello Granger" with the faintest hint of a smile. They were some of the last people to show up, and soon everyone were jostled into the dining room, where Hermione, with a guilty conscience, dawdled around so she could pick a seat at a reasonable distance from him.

It turned out that Plan Casual had met its downfall at the intricacy of eye contacts. Over the past few weeks, Hermione had taken to a guilty pleasure of catching glimpses of Draco at the dining table, his long, elegant fingers moving around utensils with a calming composure. Only that _that_ was now out of the window. It would not do to avoid looking in his direction entirely, because if one was _casual_ , one would feel the liberty to look around the room wherever one pleased; however, if one got caught looking _in a certain direction_ in the process, one would…one would go so mad as to refer to oneself in the third person.

Hermione had literally jumped at the opportunity when Ginny asked if anyone can go fetch plates for dessert from the kitchen. She was conveniently — finally, _convenience,_ for once — seated near the end of the table, so she leapt to her feet and headed straight down the hall, taking in a few gulps of fresh air along the way now that she did not have to be self-conscious of how loud she breathed.

She was _almost_ at her destination, when she heard the telltale leisure footsteps behind her that had her frozen in her tracks. She missed the socially appropriate time to turn around and be _casual_ , so she was stuck in her spot when he caught up with her, her back poised dangerously close to his warm chest yet decidedly _not touching_ , as if there was a magnetic field between them.

"I volunteered to help carry the plates." He said in his usual cool, collected voice.

Hermione stared right ahead of her, the top of her head tingling at the sensation of his breath.

"Thought I'd make an effort to live up to the expectation of being a little…" a meaningful pause, " _good,_ you know."

She felt the blood rushing to her face. In fact, she was sure that he could feel the heat coming off the top of her head by now.

 _Saysomethingsaysomethigsaysomething_.

"I have your scarf. _"_

She could physically feel him cork up an eyebrow even though she currently had her back to him.

"…And, and thanks."

She added, her throat going dry after just a handful of words.

"You are welcome," he responded, apparently very pleased with himself. "I thought it was highly chivalrous of me, too," he added with a drawl, calibrated to have the Insults and Retaliation compartment in her brain flexing its muscles in a snap.

"Don't you gloat over a piece of drunken generosity that —"

" _Oh._ " Now he sounded very, _very_ amused. "Is there a particularly piece of drunken generosity that you want to discu—"

— She spun around, wide-eyed and looking as frantic as she had pictured in her mind, her nose knocking into his chin, and his hands got around her waist and pulled her _up_ just _so_. She had barely had the time to close her eyes when he lowered his face and his lips were on hers, _again_.

It felt a lot like a deja-vu, in the sense that they just seemed to _know_ what to do, their lips chasing after each other in perfect synchronization. He had allowed a gentle moment to fully awaken her memories, brushing slowly against her lips with only the slightest pressure. She responded by biting lightly into his upper lip, and from there on the gentleness was _gone_. They were soon acting out her sinful nap the day after the kiss she had forgotten and then _just_ remembered, with her hands now reaching into his silky blonde strands and his stroking up and down her lower back. He had patiently worked his way past her lips and she let out a small moan in a voice that she had never heard herself in, at which his fingers balled up some of the fabric at the back of her sweatshirt, and she arched herself into him even more —

 _Footsteps._

Her hands paused for a split second in their exploration of his hair — she had never imagined it so _soft_ — and his teeth grazed the sensitive patch of nerves lining the interior of her bottom lip. She moaned audibly into his mouth —

 _Down the hall._

One of her hands had come between them, but instead of pushing him away as she had intended, her treacherous hand had inched under his shirt and they both let out a soft gasp at the first touch of her fingertips on the hardened plane of his abdomen —

 _One._

She was desperately in need for breath now, her heart ramming inside her chest at the _incredible_ sensory overload, leaving her brain an utter blank. _Someone's coming_ — she managed to squeeze this one thought into the mushy pulp that was currently her brilliant mind — and her hand started applying the tiniest bit of pressure against him, at which he administrated a punitive suck on her already swollen bottom lip.

 _Two_.

 _No, no, no, no, no, no,_ her heart drummed in erratic panic, but her mouth, hands, and liquified legs had all but abandoned every command from her brain, _this is going way too fast_ and she had minus zero ideas about where it was going —

 _Three —_

She shoved him away, his sense of balance seemingly as precarious as hers. She took advantage of the moment and gave him one more push, making him stagger backwards one, two steps, and hence establishing a _perfectly innocent_ distance between them as little Teddy waddled into sight, a happy grin upon his face as he chirped about permission to get ice cream from the kitchen.

She took in a deep breath, still feeling like she was going to faint any moment from the dire lack of oxygen, and took a wobbly step back to make way for Teddy.

She tried to catch his eyes so she could tell him the million things she wanted to say only without actually saying them because she still did not know the words, but this time it was him that refused to meet her eyes after one icy, hardened, cutting look.

XX.

Hermione did not remember mucking anything up on such a royal scale.

She did not even know why she was so freaked out at the thought of someone seeing them — _kissing —_ _fine_ , she knew — she knew because she had never been able to entirely not give a crap about what the rest of the world thought, in fact, there was a detestable part of her that cared _very, very much_. This is the exact kind of Hermione Grangerness that trapped her 11-year-old self in a bathroom with a fully grown troll, and even _that_ sounded favorable to the situation at hand.

Draco had turned around and marched down the hall with a forbidding sense of dignity that snuffed her multiple attempts to make out an apology, an explanation, or even just a sound. In the end, she merely dawdled around until Teddy had picked the ice cream he wanted, and by the time they were back in the dining room he and the boys had gone off to a neighborhood Quidditch stadium.

She stayed to help Ginny clean. Her Scourgify kept slipping on the uncooperative plates and clinking everything together with a horribly harsh noise. She kept her head low the whole time, not yet ready to face the exasperated glare from the redhead.

XXI.

"I expected better of you —"

" — was not _ready —_ it could be anyone, everyone we know was there that day, for Merlin's sake!"

"— I thought you were _bad_ with Ron back in school —"

"I never thought it through —"

"— can't believe you just _shoved_ him away! What are you gonna do next? Set a flock of canaries after —"

"—'s not the same!"

"— So he gets that you actually _like_ him instead of hate his guts? Which seems a way more logical explaina—"

"It's _Draco Malfoy —_ this —we _did_ hate each other's guts for the longest time — this is not gonna be easy, you know — It's — it's —"

"— And you think it was easy for _him?_ Like it was easy for _Draco Malfoy_ to kiss _Hermione Granger?_ "

Ginny snapped, and Hermione fell silent.

"Seriously, we've seen it for _months_. The way he looked at you. And you should hear you two talk — all that _flirting_ in front of everyone! What's a little kiss on top of that?"

With that last question sending a flush of crimson all the way down to Hermione's collarbones, Ginny collected her belongings from Hermione's coffee table and stormed out in a huff.

XXII.

Usually, when Hermione put her mind to something, she got it _done._ However, at this point, she barely felt the need to raise an eyebrow at Draco Malfoy being an anomaly to her rules. She had been trying to track him down for almost a week, and he had suddenly become incredibly elusive despite having been one of the people she ran into the most often at the Ministry. He had set up some sort of ward around his office and only received visitors with appointments, and Merlin knew that she had exhausted miscellaneous matters that held any, really, _any_ kind of extraneous connection over their two departments; she had _physically_ sprinted after him once in the atrium, only to be comically shut outside the elevator half a second after the metal slats clunked down. As much as she despised Divination as an academic subject _and_ as a joke, it really had started to feel like the universe was working against her.

That is, until she found out that Seamus had an appointment with the almighty Department of International Trade.

XXIII.

Hermione had to remind herself multiple times that this was, indeed, definitely, a _good_ plan.

Draco had revisited the skull-drilling glare that she thought had retired from the repertoire when he first spotted _her_ slipping in instead of Seamus, clutching the paperwork that required _his_ signature.

Amidst all the effort to track him down without blasting off his floor in frustration, she had barely had the time to think what she was going to say when she finally got to talk him, face to face, like _this_. Somehow she felt oddly at peace with that — she had come to terms with the fact that maybe there would never be that much _thinking things through_ with him. Considering their track record, her mouth would probably go off somewhere disastrous even if she had a teleprompter right in front of her.

She hid the paperwork behind her back, determined to not give him the opportunity to sign the papers and show her out. It might be an illusion from her nervous blinking, but she could swear that the corner of his mouth twitched as if he saw right through her. So now she stood like a child facing down her elementary school principal behind a huge, forbidding mahogany desk, and that thought had her instinctively raise her chin and stare him down in defiance.

"Look — first, um, I just wanna say — I'm — um, _really_ sorry about —"

"Well, you have _quite_ the posture for issuing an apology."

Hermione could not believe that she was blushing two sentences into the conversation. She did realize that she was glaring down at him like a loanshark coming to demand her due, and she awkwardly relaxed her shoulders a little.

 _Good, at least he's talking —_

"You better leave before I invite you to, or _worse yet_ , a 3-year-old toddler could barge in and you'd have to throw me out of the window."

" _I AM SORRY!_ And I —"

"Seriously, Granger, you could have sent the message without —"

"— just felt so _out of control!_ "

"— Please _leave."_

 _"— 's just me —_ I've always felt like I need to have some sort of control over —"

"— as if how you prefer you life is anything of _my_ business —"

"and maybe I just won't have any control when it comes to you, and maybe that's okay —"

"—made your point plenty clear, now just —"

"Look, things have always been…"

"Please — _out —"_

" _volatile_ between us, it used to be bad, and that's in the past —"

"I said, _out —"_

 _"_ And now — now I think about it — in a kind of…good way —"

"I don't need a signature from you to be _good_ —"

"No! That's not what I meant! It's like…you and me…we don't make things easy…BUT!", she hastily added to cut off whatever Draco was about to say, "you make me…do all these things…you make me — snap — you make me lose control…you make me _feel things…_ in a way that kind of…scared me", Hermione felt her blush deepen but determined to carry on, failing to register that Draco had stopped cutting into her sentences at some point, "beween you and me…there's never a lot of thinking things through…and maybe that's okay — I think that's okay —", she swallowed, looking into his eyes that were now pools of twirling, unfathomable silver.

"And I am sorry I reacted that way — it wasn't — it wasn't that I didn't…want to be seen with you — I just panicked —" She rushed to the next word at the sound of Draco inhaling a deep breath, afraid that he was going to cut her off, "but now I am done panicking —"

"I want to give this a try — this — _us."_

 _Us._ Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, _us_.

Her brain buzzed, not unpleasantly, at the notion.

She had reached the end of her impromptu speech, but he had remained silent behind his desk.

Egged on by that Gryffindor streak of courage she was probably going to regret later, she picked up her voice and rambled on, "look, we could go to Harry's for dinner tonight — I would kiss you in front of Teddy, or any 3-year-old, really — no, that came out wrong— I don't mind — I would tie your scarf on a flagstaff outside my window — "

He chuckled out loud at that one, taking the hand that she had smacked down his desk for dramatic effect. He yanked on her arm, bringing her upper body over while standing up to meet her half way. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead before those sinful lips travelled down her nose, peppering kisses that felt like butterflies fluttering against her face, all the way until his lips were strategically positioned at the corner of her mouth.

She was just about to tilt her head to kiss him, when he held her in place and inched his mouth away just barely —

"Just don't ever compare me to that smushy-faced monster again, alright?"

Hermione let out a breathy laugh and pressed her lips onto his. And it felt very, _very_ right.

 _The End_

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Thanks for reading until the very end! This is my first fanfiction ever so hope you guys enjoyed it & any reviews will be much appreciated :)

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Hi everyone who favorited/reviewed/inboxed me - seriously can't thank y'all enough for your support! Meant the world to a new writer like me. I am actually really bad at putting appreciation into words (I'm sure this boosts your faith in my writing haha) so hopefully you will just believe me when I say that sharing this story with all you awesome people had made it feel like Christmas all over again.

As for a few questions people had about the story...it's a one-shot because it just came into my brain that way, and I guess my beginner fanfiction brain is just not seasoned enough to conjure extensive plots that can pan into a proper multi-chapter fic. Also I think I am ultimately more of a happy prose-writer than story-plotter, and one-shots seem to provide a more flexible format where I can break into rambling reflections at my leisure. That being said, I do have some ideas about this story that couldn't fit into Hermione's headspace, so I have been writing up something related (not quite a sequel, but I think those of you who enjoyed this story will like it). I will have it up soon so please stay tuned. And again, thanks for all the support xxx


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